


Life's a Catch Drabbles

by Luthor



Series: Life's a Catch [2]
Category: Mass Effect
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-14
Updated: 2016-03-20
Packaged: 2018-05-26 15:23:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 4,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6245071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luthor/pseuds/Luthor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of snippets from my LAC-verse. Pairings: Shiara, Tevos/Aria, Benezia/Aethyta, Jackanda.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Shiara

**Author's Note:**

> These were all originally posted on luthorao3.tumblr.com, but I figured I'd put everything in one place. Each chapter will read as part of the overall AU, but they are not in chronological order. All of these were prompted on tumblr, but I may add more to this within the future.

Liara is the first to wake.

Dustcloud dreams give way to the inside of a too-expensive hotel suite; pink walls, cream sheets. The Noverian sun barely breaks the day, and the window shutters keep out all artificial light, suspending them in unhurried pre-dawn. Liara pokes an experimental limb out from her wrap of blankets, confirms that Shepard has drifted no further than the middle of the bed, and presses closer.

She’s always hot at night. Too hot, sometimes, that Liara has to peel herself away and resort to stealing the duvet to keep warm. Now, Liara disregards it altogether, pushes it behind her, and drapes her near-naked body around Shepard’s instead.

She presses a kiss to a freckled shoulder, and smiles at the tickle of unkempt hair against her cheek.

When she hooks a leg comfortably over Shepard’s hip, the stretch in her thigh borders on painful. It draws a surprised breath from her, but it is not an unpleasant ache; the memory of how she got it turns her cheeks a bashful blue.

Had they considered Noveria’s perpetual winter, they might have planned ahead for the two days that they have ended up here, grounded. Liara still has a travel brochure tucked inside a pocket, somewhere, detailing at least three on-planet galleries that she would like to see in person. And yet, something about the impromptu trip had brought out the romantic in Shepard.

Get a room, she had said, go all out. Liara had not hesitated.

From the sound of Shepard’s heavy breathing, Liara is willing to say that she’s content with her choice in hotel. Truly, she had been more than happy with the double shower, the open fire, _and_ the balcony Jacuzzi, all of which Liara had enjoyed sharing.

Still, she has to wonder if going from an expensive hotel to a rented shuttle and a two-person tent (to the height of affordable Noverian luxury, to a near-unreachable, hopefully-deserted dig site in the centre of a lawless System), is their best idea.

She imagines the trip would be much more appreciated, reversed.

Just as she is considering booking a reservation for their return from Ilos, a call sounds at the door. Liara lifts her head in surprise, at first, and then remembers the alarm she had scheduled for when the blizzard cleared enough for their flight to resume.

She eases back from Shepard, not wanting to wake her, and slides out from beneath the blankets, only to fumble in the dark for her clothes. She had brought one suitcase into the hotel with her, and only for the necessities; there had been a change of clothes inside, and clean underwear.

Now, Liara wonders where the hell she left it.

She stretches an arm beneath the bed and sighs when her fingers meet with something soft. She does not bother turning on a light, but can tell almost instantly that the sweater in her hand is not her own. Outside of the bedroom, the hotel door gives another ring for attention as the holographic plate is hit.

Liara contemplates shouting out to them to wait, but then remembers Jane, still sleeping.

With a quick sigh, she fumbles with Shepard’s sweater in order to find the sleeves. She pushes both arms through and pulls it over her head just as she stands from the floor. The collar is tight around her crest, but Liara forces herself into it, hurried.

It is only when the collar continues to expand – when she gets her face and crest near-painfully caught up in it – that she realises her mistake. And panics. She opens her eyes from inside the collar, but the dark material blots out any hope of seeing. She tries to draw it down over her eyes, at least, but the added pressure at the back of her crest quickly puts a stop to her painful tugging.

Resigned, she moves to the back of the collar, and begins the excruciating process of drawing it down over each unrelenting protrusion of her crest.

(At any moment, Shepard will wake and see her like this – she will see her trapped like a struggling pyjak, bested by a turtleneck. Tears spike in the corners of her eyes at the thought.)

Finally, breathless with panic, she slips her fingers inside of the collar and  _yanks_ until the fabric tears.

All at once, the pressure on her crest eases, and the rest of the material is pulled easily from over her face. At the door, again, a ring. Liara casts herself a horrified once-over – the sweater reaches her chin, clings there like a choker, and she has never despised human fashion more in all of her one-hundred-and-thirteen years.

Her bed shorts are easier to find – discarded over a chair. She steps into them while hurrying towards the door, and does not bother with the tie before palming the door’s holographic sensor. The panels slide open with barely a hiss, presenting a smartly dressed salarian and a tray of pre-ordered breakfast.

Liara is breathless when she thanks him, her heart still pounding with excess adrenaline. She must be purple-flushed and panting; the salarian does not look perturbed, but wheels the trolley in towards the modest dining table and takes his tip.

Once he has gone, Liara opens the window shutters and takes in the breakfast. Among the coffee and fresh fruit is a bowl of porridge (hers) and something hot and sweet for Shepard. Liara swallows thickly at the sight, and the high-collar presses seemingly ever tighter around her throat.

By the time she returns to the bedroom, Shepard is awake.

She stretches and yawns, but only sits up when Liara perches on the edge of the bed, not facing her. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, Shepard groans at the smell of breakfast in the next room, and crawls forward on hands and knees to press a kiss to Liara’s cheek.

Only once she’s close enough does she really take in what Liara is wearing. She draws back, smirking.

“Are you wearing my sweater?”

Finally, Liara turns to face her, eyes watery and expression solemn.

“Jane,” she whispers, and nips briefly at her bottom lip, “you may have to cut me out of this.”


	2. Aethyta/Benezia

Aethyta doesn’t remember growing old.

At heart, she’s still the rough-and-tumble maiden who isn’t afraid to pick a fight with a krogan twice her size – and nothing much has changed, in that regard. She is not lacking in strength, and she’s as sharp as she’s ever been. Truthfully, she never has to travel far before a maiden somewhere is running her hands along her biceps – is slipping a room key into her back pocket.

Yet, growing old she is, and the evidence of her aging presents itself to her more often these days, and always in the most inconvenient circumstances.

So when Aethyta wakes on a too-soft mattress, with a too-warm body draped over her own, the dread of having accidentally fallen asleep in her ex’s bed is outweighed only by her relief that Benezia had fared no better.

It’s not what they’re supposed to do.

Hell, the sex had been a taboo, of sorts, but an enjoyable one – one they had both benefited from, if only with instant gratification. _This_ is different. This has Aethyta’s throat clawing shut, her body tense – has Benezia shifting in mild discomfort and a frown pinching at her brow that Aethyta is more than familiar with. Sleep addled and pissed off, she assesses the situation, and then forces herself to relax.

(On her chest, an unintelligible murmur of satisfaction.)

She turns her gaze down to Benezia, to what she can see of her, from this angle, but it is not much. Her eyes are closed and her skin is soft and gently wrinkled. With her nose this close to the top of Benezia’s crest, Aethyta can smell the lotion she uses, and aches with nostalgia. Dazed, she lowers her stiff neck back into the pillow.

Around them, the bedroom is still dark. The balcony curtains have not been righted since Aethyta herself shoved them brusquely shut upon entering, and a strip of moonlight hangs across the marbled floor, reflecting off the decorative light fixtures. If Aethyta had to guess, she’d put the time between post-midnight and pre-dawn.

She thinks of Benezia’s security; she will have to check her omni-tool for the time in order to work out when will be safe for her to leave, but any movement risks disturbing Benezia from sleep. It risks being caught, and the chiding that Benezia could not give her for chance of hypocrisy. It risks an inevitable, expectant farewell.

She waits a moment – holds her breath until the decision is finalised within her mind, and then lets both body and mind sink slowly back into sleep. She’ll deal with the fallout tomorrow, she thinks, when Benezia is no longer soft and warm above her – a contented sigh by the base of her throat.

Aethyta doesn’t remember growing old.

She’s as spry as ever, and just as cunning. But if there’s one thing she’s honed over the years, if there’s _one_ piece of advice that she could go back and give her younger self, it’s knowing when to play the fool, and when to act your age.


	3. Jackanda

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Upping the rating but there's no smut! Just paranoia!

Miranda catches her hand before it can finish its descent.

She twines her fingers through Jack’s and pulls them gently away from her waistband. In the dark beside her, Jack holds herself up by one elbow, effectively peering over her, and frowns. Even had Miranda’s eyes not yet adjusted to the dark, she doubts she’d have to _see_ Jack’s confused expression in order to know that it’s there.

“You don’t want to do that,” she tells her, voice soft with pre-sleep. “I’m on my period.”

Jack waits a beat.

She makes a noise of acknowledgement, finally, and draws her hand away. Miranda lies still and content as Jack shifts in the bed beside her, until she too is lying on her back, her shoulder pressed just barely into Miranda’s. She’s too still. If Miranda listens closely enough, she’s sure she won’t even hear Jack breathing.

“So,” comes after a moment, and Miranda’s lips turn up at the corners, “are you gonna do me, or…?”

She lets out a quiet snort and rolls onto one side, facing Jack. Jack tilts her head towards her, and her eyes are so dark and vaguely shining, she looks for an instant like a confused girl. Miranda untucks one arm from where she has them both bunched against her chest, and places her hand over Jack’s ribs. Beneath her palm, Jack’s ribcage rises and falls too quickly for her to be anywhere close to sleep.

Still, she moves her hand no lower, and Jack’s frown only grows when she realises that she isn’t about to, either.

“We’re not going to fuck at all?”

“No, we’re sleeping.”

“Sleeping,” Jack repeats, and Miranda closes her eyes with a sigh.

“I know you sleep, Jack. You snore too loudly for me to miss it.”

There is another tense silence that Miranda is almost content with, so close to sleep is she already. Still, beneath her hand, Jack’s ribcage rises and rises and rises, and then stops. She holds her breath for three long seconds, and Miranda opens her eyes.

Finally, an exhale, and: “I thought that was why you let me stay.”

Miranda waits a beat.

“It was late,” she whispers, drawing her thumb against Jack’s ribs; it’s about as comforting as Jack will let her be, right now. “You looked tired. I was exhausted.”

Jack goes quiet again, and this is the point at which she’ll get up, Miranda thinks, where she’ll slip out as easily and effectively beneath her as the world slips on its axis, because that is just what Jack does. Miranda knows her well enough now that she can accept that without having to enjoy it. She closes her eyes again and waits for it; the sooner she’s gone, the sooner she can fall asleep.

She’s tired enough, at least, that she will not have time to ruminate on Jack’s retreat for long.

Still, she waits, and the longer she waits the more she dreads Jack’s leaving. Seconds pass. Miranda holds her breath, and yet beneath her hand, long, laboured breaths pull and push at Jack’s ribcage. She’s breathing steadily – comfortably – and: “I am tired,” she whispers.

The shock of it stirs Miranda, has her turning to Jack with an uncertain kind of hope.

Beside her, Jack holds her gaze for a few quiet seconds, and then closes her eyes.


	4. Aria/Tevos

Tevos had declined the wine when offered. Now, she’s beginning to regret her decision.

She sits perfectly still with both hands folded in her lap, staring across at Aria T’Loak, of all people. The self-professed Queen of Omega sends her a look so dry that it borders on, _this was your idea_. Not having seen reason to abstain, herself, Aria takes a moderate sip from her own wine glass and swallows without breaking their gaze.

Tevos suddenly feels parched.

“You’re biding time, Tevos,” Aria says, finally, setting her glass down. “Do I need to remind you that our being here is your doing? If our arrangement is no longer necessary, please,” her tone dips into impatience, and she raises one hand to gesture dismissively at her door.

Mortified, Tevos lifts her chin until she is looking across at Aria with more confidence than she has any right to feel. “That won’t be necessary,” she says, her displeasure at being insulted evident in her tone if not in her expression. “I simply wanted to ensure that you’re clear on our terms.”

This draws a small smirk from Aria, who rises from her seat with little effort. Tevos does not join her, but sits especially straighter when Aria makes her way behind the chair that she is sitting on. Her booted footsteps turn purposefully quiet against the metallic floor, but Tevos does not strain her neck to see her. She stares ahead and tries not to jump when two hands land on her shoulders, cool even through her dress.

“I’m well aware of our terms,” Aria says, dipping her thumbs along Tevos’ shoulders as though she were about to give her a massage. Inspired by the idea, she adds a little more force, until the councillor sighs under her touch. “You take what you need from me, you raise her, and I have no further contact nor claim.”

Her words are almost as soothing as her hands; Tevos relaxes beneath her whether or not she'd meant to. Her head hangs low on her neck, exposing the folding underside of her crest. When Aria lowers herself to whisper by Tevos’ ear, she feels her breath down the back of her dress collar, and shivers.

“If you’re desperate to get this over with, I don’t even need to take you to bed.”

That rouses Tevos.

She reaches behind her to touch one hand to Aria’s, stopping the massage, and then stands from the chair. Aria does not move, but waits for her as Tevos makes her way around it, until they are standing at almost the same height, facing one another.

“I want to,” Tevos says, assertive, and Aria relinquishes control of the evening. When Tevos lifts both hands to the collar of that infamous jacket, they are not trembling. She pushes it slowly back, revealing strong, bare shoulders, and sends Aria a purposeful look.

“Take this off,” she tells her, “I’m ready.”


	5. Jackanda

Miranda knows she’s done something wrong (or very, very right) when Jack straightens in bed against her, her sentence tapering off into a quiet exhale.

She stills her hand on Jack’s head, and the other palm-flat against her back, waiting. Jack does not move away like she has a habit of doing when something upsets her, and so Miranda relaxes again beneath her. She picks up the slow, imprecise trailing of her fingers along Jack’s bare back and waits for her to continue talking.

She’s almost forgotten, at this point, the tail end of the conversation that they had been having, but Jack does not hurry to fill her in. She lies still against Miranda’s body, her face buried too far into her neck that Miranda could not check her expression, even if she wanted to. She’s expectant, Miranda realises, and the only indication that she is not upset is the quick thrum of her heart where she’s pressed against Miranda’s chest.

By now, Miranda has learned that anything other than outright refusal is Jack’s way of encouraging affection.

Slowly – just in case she is wrong, heaven forbid – she caresses her thumb along the back of Jack’s head. The little hairs that are beginning to grow there are too short to yet be prickly, and tickle the pad of her thumb. Against her throat, Jack’s breath conspicuously stops, and Miranda finally lets herself smile.

Her fingernails are due to be trimmed, but she’s been putting it off. Jack likes them like this – likes the sting and the bite of them in her shoulders and her thighs. Miranda especially likes the way she gasps when she digs them in Jack’s ass.

Now, she uses the fine ends of them to scrape outwards along Jack’s scalp.

All at once, Jack’s body shudders against her. She releases a quiet moan, muffled only by how close her lips are pressed to Miranda’s collarbones. Jack would hide these sensitive little places from her all the time at the beginning of their relationship, whether from lacking comfort or wanting to make Miranda work for it, she isn’t sure. Still, she knows what to expect when a new patch of sensitive skin is discovered, and Miranda does not disappoint. Her nails run back and forth along Jack’s scalp, from her tattooed temples to the base of her neck (Jack lets out a _squeak_ when she gets there and Miranda’s nails _do not move_ from the spot for several minutes).

Finally, tortured, Jack lifts herself with a grunt that could be mistaken for annoyance, were she not trying fruitlessly to hide her grin. She reaches back behind her head for Miranda’s wrist, and pins it securely to the bed by her face. Miranda tests the hold out, gauging just how playful Jack is feeling, and can’t help but smirk when she barely manages to twist her wrist.

“Oh,” she coos, meeting Jack’s wide, dark eyes again, “you’re _so sensitive_.”

“Fuck off,” Jack tells her, and brings their mouths together.


	6. Shiara

Shepard wakes to the discomforting feeling of an empty bed.

She lies quietly in the darkness while she waits for her racing heartbeat to calm down, for the last lingering images from her nightmare to recede. She stares directly up at the ceiling and reminds herself that she is not actually on Virmire – that she is safe and secure and far too old for these lasting regrets.

A rhythmic tap-tapping draws her attention, and Shepard cranes her neck to see Liara, still awake, and gently illuminated by the glow from her private terminal. Shepard cannot see her face from this angle, but her fingers do not let up off the keyboard. When she looks again to the back of Liara’s head, she notices wireless earphones poking out from the hollow of her ears.

Shepard moves to uncover herself. She does not draw Liara’s attention as she places both feet on the ground, nor when she moves to stand behind her, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. When she peers over Liara’s shoulders, she spots several open tabs, including the document that she is currently working in. Words appear on the screen too quickly for Shepard to keep up with, and so she does not bother.

She touches her hands so gently to Liara’s shoulders, and cringes even as she smiles when Liara jumps at the intrusion. The earphones are plucked out as Liara turns to see her, her surprise shifting quickly into concern.

“Sorry,” Shepard tells her, pressing a kiss to the top of her crest. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

Liara only shakes her head. “You’re awake?”

“So are you,” Shepard smirks, but it does not last. She turns back to the screen, again. Sensing that she would rather not speak of her reason for waking, Liara follows her gaze. Without prompt, Shepard’s hands begin to gently massage the tension in her shoulders. “You’ve been here all night.”

“I know,” Liara hums, using the moment to save her progress. “I’m almost done.”

Unseen, Shepard nods her head.

It’s easy, when she’s in this mind frame, to focus on making Liara feel good, even if it is only with an uncoordinated backrub. It settles her – soothes her thoughts – to know that she’s still able to do something good for somebody, as pathetically little as it is. She’s always struggled to make herself feel better after a trying night; self-care does not always come easy, but loving Liara is effortless.

They’re quiet for a long time as Liara sifts through her work files. She shuts down each individual programme until she’s back on her home screen, and then sets her terminal to shut down. A quick stretch and yawn later, and she twists her head back to see Shepard.

“Bed?” she whispers, and Shepard, relieved, nods her head.


	7. Jackanda

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last one for now, but if anyone has any LAC-verse prompts feel free to put them in the comments, or send them to luthorao3.tumblr.com!

Miranda doesn’t let on when she notices.

She thinks, should she draw any kind of attention to the way that Jack’s fingers are no longer drawing through her hair, but rather _weaving_ it into some semblance of a loose plait, the contact will stop altogether. Glancing back up to the skylight window in this month’s hotel, she shifts her head comfortably in Jack’s lap, giving her better room to work in.

“Maybe it’s time to go home,” she says, though they both know there’s little strength in the suggestion. “It’s got to be the last place they’d come looking.”

“Yeah, Earth,” Jack gripes, “because Cerberus doesn’t have any reach there.”

Miranda tilts her eyes up to see her, and frowns at the way that Jack’s smirking face looms overhead. “Ugh,” she says, turning her attention back to the stars, and if Jack’s fingers don’t just feel all the more pleasant in her hair… “Where would you suggest, then? I’m getting tired of living in hotels. There’s no privacy.”

“Oh, boo-fucking-hoo, you have to deal with people cleaning your shit up for you in the morning.” Her fingers catch at a knot, and she is surprisingly gentle when working them back out again. “Get a ship. Something discreet. We’ll hang in the Terminus Systems until we get bored of each other and stop having great sex.”

Miranda’s lips twitch. “And then what?”

“And then,” Jack hums, clearly musing aloud, “I kick you through the airlock and find someone ruthless enough to help kick start my criminal empire.”

“Ha.”

“It’s ready and waiting,” Jack insists, and Miranda’s smirk widens to a toothy grin.

“You’d miss me,” she says, sitting up, and Jack’s fingers shift easily back into her own lap. Facing her, Miranda pulls her hair over one shoulder and inspects the half-plait that is already slipping loose from its weave. There’s nothing ambitious about it, and yet… “I didn’t know you could do that,” Miranda says, turning back to Jack with a quip ready on her tongue.

The look on Jack’s face stalls it.

“Yeah,” she says, frowning, and pulls her parted knees up beneath her arms. _Neither had she_.

Miranda’s stomach clenches when she recognises the look on Jack’s face. She’s halfway towards a memory that she will never recover, buried between blurred faces and voices that don’t sound quite right.  She folds her legs together and hesitates for a few silent seconds before reaching out to one of Jack’s bare feet.

Jack does not respond as her leg is drawn out from beneath her arm. She watches as her foot is dragged back behind Miranda’s hip, and only places her hands behind her for support when her other foot is shown the same treatment. Her legs loosely around Miranda’s hips, now, it’s no surprise when strong hands secure her by her hips and draw her in.

She lands heavily in Miranda’s lap, their faces mere inches apart.

“Tell me again,” Miranda whispers, “about how much you’ll miss me.”

If nothing else, it returns a smile to Jack’s lips.


End file.
